


LIGHTS IN THE SHADOW ★

by elfroot



Series: King & Lionheart [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Boys In Love, Butts, Caboodles, Chantry Boys, Childhood Friends, Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Fondling, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hugs, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Morning Sex, Nipples, Sappy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4217217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of drabbles/side stories taking place within the same verse as <b><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3604299/chapters/7952208">SWORDS & BROKEN SHIELDS</a></b>, in no particular order. Will sometimes feature a younger Cullen and a younger Alistair during their Chantry days. Contains NSFW pieces of art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MY KING, YOUR LIONHEART

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [SWORDS & BROKEN SHIELDS ★ REMASTERED ★](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604299) by [elfroot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot). 



> It doesn’t matter how close they’ve gotten—kingly duties often keep them apart, much to Alistair’s displeasure, and Cullen takes it upon himself to distract his King in the best possible way.
> 
> (In which Alistair has become King after events that I cannot divulge now because they have yet to occur in the main story. Something to expect in future chapters of the actual fic.)

The quill rolls idle between his fingers, restless as the parchment crinkles under the weight of his elbow—a sour reminder that the page is still _empty_ —and he squirms, _sighs_ , spilling more groans than his plume has spilled ink. _The duties of a King_. Because the duties of _Wardens_ are not enough as is, apparently, and here he is again, a sense of déjà-vu, and he wishes he could strangle Cousland. _It's his fault_. His and— _well_ —the giant breach in the sky's, no longer there, but _he_ is, _there_ , alive, back to square one with a crown on his head, and no formal resignation could have prevented this. _This_. A curse or a benediction, he can't tell anymore, and it feels odd being here, Maric's blood in his veins, a son acknowledged, and he's gained in maturity and he knows it could have been worse, but it isn't, _worse_ , because he's not alone. The Inquisition endures, a powerful ally, and Rylen leads with a firm hand, a friend of his own leader, Commander of Ferelden's military forces and...

 _Well_. Commander of many things, as far as he's concerned.

Cullen's followed him without an ounce of hesitation, and truth be told, he isn't sure how well he'd fare here, without him, an advisor, a friend, more than a lover, _a part of him_ , and he beats in his chest and he prowls in his mind, his right hand, his lionheart.

His everything.

Having him by his side has made his fate all the more bearable, and he feels safer than he did a decade ago, _braver_ , holding his name with more pride than burdened fears, and still he knows he'll never get used to _this_ , mindless correspondence and endless paperwork, no swords here, no shields, and not nearly enough time spent with him, _Cullen_ , away from prying eyes and oh, _Maker_ , how he misses him, every second of every day, counting the hours until he can find him again.

 _Alone_.

It's the bane of his existence, to have him so close and still so far. He withstands his torment through stolen moments, in the war room and in the courtyard,  furtive brushes of hands in the gardens, and he delights in watching him spar, often bare in the sunlight, his torso, hard lines and sinew muscles, and when Alistair joins him on the training grounds, he doesn't spar, he _dances_ , around him, _with_ him, swords and shields a mere pretense, an excuse for closer proximity, and he feels his skin against his even now, long hours after their latest practice, and he breathes, a stifled moan as he strives to keep his hand away from the bulge straining his breeches.

He hasn't warmed his bed in days. There's a rumor, of course, about him, _them_ , and he's seen, _caught_ fragments of conversations and disapproving glances, because _he's a bastard_ ,  as if deficient, born broken, and a King worthy of his title shouldn't fall for a man. He doesn't care much, truth be told. Cullen has always been more than blood, and perhaps even more than obligations, yet he doesn't say anything, for Cullen, because _he_ doesn't want him to, not out of shame but out of a sense of security, of protection, unwilling to risk his safety or reputation. But it's hard to hide when they stand in the same room, often distracted, longing in their eyes, and it would be hard to hide _now_ should anyone walk in, a loopy smile on his face as he ogles the framed painting on the wall, his Commander, poised under a tree, carefree, a smile to match his own. It would be hard to hide and it's just his luck that someone _does_ walk in, quiet footsteps on the floor as the door creaks shut, an intruder he hasn't yet noticed, dripping wet, droplets of water on the wooden surface of his desk, and he turns his head, distrait, an eyeful of golden skin dotted in watery beads, and he nearly chokes on his own tongue.

 _Maker's breath_.

"C-Cullen," he jerks back, not without noting the slow curve forming at the corner of his lips, borderline smug and fully aware of the effect he has on him, bare and beautiful, all chiseled lines and fierce strength, a simple towel hanging low around lean hips.

"Do you have a moment?" he asks, and Alistair grips the edge of his desk, _breathes_ , because he remembers his touches, when they sparred in the morning, evasive, _promising_ , and he doesn't know how Cullen's managed to walk unnoticed to his office in that _ridiculously attractive state_ , and he doesn't care.

"I... seem to have lost my train of thoughts," he smiles, _beams_ , a trifle nervous, because it always feels so new, so real, and he doesn't know what he did to have this man fall for him, his childhood friend, a pillar since his early youth, and he's so thankful. "Ah! There it is. I have... this very long letteeeer... to write to this very aggravating noble _shrew_ , and I— _Well_. I don't suppose I should call her _that_ , now that I'm the... now that I'm..."

His voice trails off as he watches Cullen's hand move from the expanse of his chest to the knot tying the towel around him, and he pulls and it _falls off_ , damp curls and a cock jutting hard between strong thighs, and his mouth goes dry.

"Yes," he croaks, because it's all he can manage as he stands and rounds the desk, and he burns under Cullen's gaze, all this want, all this need, _all this love_ , and he feels the same urgency boiling in his veins. "I _definitely_ have a moment. I have _so many moments_ I'm fairly certain I'll be off duties for a while. For _hours_."

"For the rest of the night, perhaps?" Cullen asks, and his nose is in his neck and Alistair nuzzles his cheek, breathing him in, his chemise already wet from the water still pearling on his skin, hair dripping, and it's just as well, because he needs to remove it.

 _Now_.

"Yes," he nods, and Cullen's fingers pull at his shirt, helping him out of his clothes as noses brush and lips flutter, clandestine caresses.

"Would you rather stay here or join me in my quarters?"

" _Yes_ ," and it doesn't make sense and it doesn't matter, and he laughs, with him, a light chuckle as lips touch and linger, hearts beating hard.

He holds him tight, wrapped around each other as they stand, and his tongue curls slow and languorous around his, a hum in his throat as they breathe the same air. His cock incessantly pushes against his own, _slides_ , lazy, bringing them closer, _tighter_ , hands running warm and febrile upon inflamed skin, and he needs more, more friction, more of him, never close enough, a groan on his tongue.

"Tell me what you want," Alistair sighs inbetween kisses, and Cullen's mouth flutters to his jaw, eager, a long exhale through his nose.

"You."

"Oho, _well_... Aren't you a lucky... man."

"Indeed," and he smiles, a step backwards, _two_ , until he tumbles there over the sofa, his lap full of Alistair.

Granted, it's nowhere near the comfort of his bed, yet it hardly matters now, bare and pressed flush against him, straddling him as Cullen leans back against the cushions, his arms strong around his waist. They merely hold each other, remembering what they've missed, gentle fingers across flustered faces and broad shoulders, and Alistair shifts, _grinds_ , a languid roll of hips as he catches Cullen's moan into his mouth, his cock twitching hard against his.

"You've always seemed to particularly enjoy this," Cullen half-grins, and he thrusts for good measure, causing Alistair's lashes to droop lower, a lazy nod as his forehead touches his own.

"Mhm..."

"My shaft..."

 _O-Ohh, Maker_ , _yes_ , he needs to hear more, the low, sultry notes of that voice when Cullen speaks of things he would never mention otherwise, making his length jerk in anticipation.

" _Yes_. Your shaft..."

"Do you... object?"

_Cullen! Don't stop now!_

"Do I object..." Alistair repeats, hazily blinking his eyes open. " _Really_? Because you're distracting me from my tedious, _boring_ royal tasks? Suuuure, I object. And that's why my _shaft_ is so painfully _ha_ —"

"I-I simply thought—"

"I know what you're thinking. You're having second thoughts, aren't you. Now, even after _you_ sought me... _Tsk_. You worry too much. I've been thinking about how _crazy_ you make me feel and _you_ wonder if I want this? I do. I could do this all day, though I doubt it'd please the noble shrew. Not that she'd... _know_ , of course, but... She'd probably know, wouldn't she. _Of course_ she would, and the worst part is... I don't even think I'd care. What are you _doing_ to me?"

"The same thing you are doing to me, I suspect," Cullen smiles, flushed and holding him closer, a nuzzle along his jaw.

"Making you... feel... crazy?"

"More than you could ever possibly know."

"Oh, _trust_ me," he laughs, _chuckles_ , because he does know, the same heartbeat, wild when he's closeby, wavering when he isn't, and he snuggles up to him, shivering at the feel of Cullen's teeth teasing his ear, his shaft a pulse on its own. "I'm certain I already do, and I'm also certain you should keep _talking_ to me."

"I _am_ talking to you, Alistair."

"No, I mean.... you... _know_. You stopped at my favorite part."

"And what would _that_ be, pray tell?"

"Oho, teasing me now, are you. Or is it that you can't bring yourself to... say... _it_. You know..."

"My _shaft_ , was it," and he can sense the grin curling his lips, parted against his throat now, and he feels his tongue across his skin and he shudders in his arms, arching for him. "The weight of your... cock, against mine..."

Ohhhhh, _yes_.

"Hard. _Thick_."

"Mmmmm..."

"The sway of your hips as you thrust, the hitch in your breath as I thrust back. The way your lips hang parted and trembling over mine when I knead your arse and bring you closer to me, already coming apart."

"Ah-ahhhh..."

"The sight of you writhing for me makes me lose my mind..."

"Cullen..."

" _Alistair_..."

And he groans, _growls_ , grabbing his arse and guiding him closer, _faster_ in his lap, and Alistair _does_ writhe and Cullen _does_ lose his mind, a curse under his breath, _dirty_ , his Commander, so proper, so polite, even here with him, when they make love, and still he caves on occasion, wanton, unrestrained, and he enjoys this as much as his gentle side, a rougher ride to satiate him, to make him his all over again, a physical ache he needs to soothe. He does, _soothe_ , his desire and his need, senses on fire as his cock leaks, and he squirms and he seeks more of him, erections trapped between slick skin, squeezed and pulsing thick against hard muscles. The rhythm breaks. He doesn't grind any longer, and neither does Cullen—they merely _move_ , sloppy, panting heavy around each other's tongues, and Alistair rubs himself against him with the kind of eager urgency that nearly causes him to fall off his lap, but he doesn't stop, shaky rolls of hips as he undulates above him, and he heaves, _moans_ , and they grip each other and they hiss, shafts coated in precum and sliding easy, nudging, prodding, stroking, and he's out of breath.

" _Cullen_ ," he all but whimpers, and he doesn't care that he doesn't sound very kingly—his Commander is just as ragged, _raw_ , nodding fast and clinging to his lips, and he chants his name as their foreheads collide, a touch to offset their desire, an intimate reminder that beneath all this fire, all this sexual need, there are two hearts beating together, light and heavy for each other, an unbreakable devotion.

They come together, cockheads bathed in cum as it spills. slick rivulets running down their lengths and stomachs. A cry lingers, _echoes_ , breathed upon supple lips, and limbs slacken and kisses soften and Alistair feels his heart in Cullen's chest, faces cupped in tender warmth.

"A shame you've just taken a bath," Alistair grins, catching his breath as they move, slower now, sluggish, a flutter of lips upon stubbled skin. "Maybe it's just me, but you seem to be in dire need of anotheeer _one_."

"As do you," Cullen smiles, and he catches his chuckle and he pulls him closer, and Alistair's fingers are in his hair.

"Rather convenient, isn't it? Almost as if I'd _planned_ this all _along_. Or maybe _you_... have. I'll have one prepared in my bedchamber, if you'd like to... join me."

"So soon?"

"Do you... _object_?"

 _Oho_ , and there's a rumble in his chest, a lighthearted sound in his throat, and he holds him tight and he laughs against his lips, free, _together_ , and Alistair knows from the glint in his eyes, so bright, that he's missed him just as much as he has.

"Of course not," Cullen shakes his head, nuzzling his cheek, his nose, and he can't seem to be able to stop touching him. "Anything for you."

"Anything? _Really_."

"Anything," he smiles that smile he likes so much, warm and deep and fond, fully his, an impish and tender confession on his tongue. "Because you're my King... and _I_ am your Lionheart."

And he kisses him again, limbs intertwined and arms around each other, bodies molded, trembling in lingering passion, and Alistair thinks, distantly, that this royal fate of his might not be so terrible, after all.


	2. MORNING SEX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble based on [this picture](http://40.media.tumblr.com/94ed6a1578466d3940d0d18766eb1432/tumblr_inline_noey126wmF1sywyyz_500.jpg) from true blood.

Musk. Elderflower. Earth… and a hint of something else,  _him_ , crisp and savage and _tame_ , and Alistair breathes him in as rays of morning glow sifts through the open window, jagged lines of sunlight splayed across golden skin.  _Cullen_. He stirs beneath him,  _shivers_ , a tremor of lazy limbs where Alistair’s lips traced his name, and he stirs again as they move up his spine, arching for more. He’s half-awake, wholly responsive, and Alistair looms languid over him, palm flush and febrile up his side, feeling him, slow,  _higher_ , and he trembles with him and he sighs, lips parted in the curve of his back. He can rarely ever resist this,  _him_ , aroused as the sun rises, not just his loins but his heart as well, full,  _wild_ , and a glimpse of Cullen’s face is all it takes to spur his blood alive, senses galvanized,  _and Maker’s breath but he’s beautiful._

He is a lucky man.

Lucky enough to be allowed this nearly every morning, and he basks in his scent and he rolls languorous above him, the tip of his cock grazing his skin smooth and hard with every sway of his body. He guards diligently against taking his own pleasure, shortened breath and stifled groans as his mouth flutters across the expanse of his back, all taut muscles and sharp lines, lips softer over his scars, and he rubs his cheeks there in the crook of his shoulder blades and he  _moans_ , lashes drooping low under the strain of his desire.

_Alistair_ , he hears, and he nods and he arches over him,  _behind_ , braced on one hand as he fondles the contour of his torso with the other, and Cullen rises, shifts underneath him, seeking his touch. They meet halfway, a hazy crash of skin as cheeks bump and noses collide, gentle, drowsy, and Alistair’s lips hang open over his, a slow torment he breathes through heavy sighs.  _He wants him_. He wants him and Cullen nuzzles his face in sluggish yearning, fingers in his hair as broken notes of need drifts past the lazy flicks of his tongue, and Alistair breathes him in,  _out_ , moaning the same moans and grinding down as Cullen pushes,  _up_ , against him, and his cock twitches heavy in the crease of his arse.

_Maker’s breath_ , and he doesn’t know whose voice graces his ears—perhaps both—scattered and sloppy kisses as he moves, nudging him with his shaft,  _thrusting_ , unhurried undulations of toned hips. Cullen’s fingers quiver around the nape of his neck, keeping him close, and they rasp and they rock together, a slow rhythm, a morning dance. It’s how they wake, it’s how they  _speak_ , wordless, movements draped in disrupted dreams, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of this, humming along with every noise grating the back of Cullen’s throat, and he feels them,  _there_ , in his guts and around his cock, glistening now, jerking eager at the sound of his fragmented breath.

He’s touched him so many times it should feel stale, but it never does, never enough, enough of him, and Cullen bounces against him and he bucks,  _grinds_ , causing him to shudder, and he pants ragged and shallow across his skin, a muffled groan in the curve of his neck. There’s precum all over his arse, the crown of Alistair’s cock constantly smearing more, and it’s slick and it’s smooth and he needs  _to feel him_ , reaching down to encourage him off the mattress. Cullen obliges, arse lifted as he writhes, and Alistair’s senses spin, fingers curled around his shaft, and he squeezes and he strokes and he rolls against him, back and forth, pulsing thick against the fine shape of his bottom.

There’s a curse on Cullen’s tongue, barely audible, but he catches its raspy note and he grits his teeth, because Cullen never swears, not like this, lewd,  _wanton_ , and he wails and he cranes his neck for another taste of him, a fractured whimper against his lips. He’s close. He must be, arched languid as he moves faster, and he reaches down, behind him, fingers digging into Alistair’s hips and forcing him closer, _impossibly closer_ , desperate and messy thrusts into his fist. Oh,  _ohhh_ , and Alistair shudders again, cadence increased, lips parted and hovering over his, and he follows, quick, rougher, skin slapped and grazed, and his cock leaks and Cullen’s juts harder, pushing into his palm, squirming to get more of his touch, his arse firm and squishing him tight.

_A l i s t a i r_ … and Alistair holds him closer, nuzzling his cheek, his nose, sighing gruff into his mouth, and Cullen comes,  _shivers_ , coating his hand slick and warm, and it’s too much for him and his cock jerks, eager, wild, spasms of pleasure as he spills himself all over his arse, his back, his panted sighs lost in the midst of Cullen’s moans.

For a moment there his mind flashes completely blank, deafened by his own heartbeat, and he breathes low and ragged against his skin, his shoulder, fluttered kisses across his neck as his pulses eases into a slower rhythm. Cullen collapses under his weight and he shifts above him, leaning down, his cock sleek and softer against his hip, and he collapses in turn, half-sprawled over him, his thigh covering his as he rests on his side, facing him.

“Good morning,” Cullen smiles, gruff, sleepy, and the tip of his nose brushes against his and Alistair chuckles, a lazy grin, fingers light and tender across his back.

“I know,” and he leans in, impish, seeking his lips once more, affectionate, never enough, enough of him.

 


	3. CABOODLES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cuddles. fake-snoring. fluff. childhood memories. _caboodles_.

They’ll know. They’ll know and he doesn’t dare move, poised and stiff against bark, and he sits quiet in front of the crackling fire and he  _sighs_ , focus sharpened on the tents nearby.  _They’ll know_ , and it’s absurd because  _how could they_ , fast asleep in the confines of their makeshift shelters—Cassandra, Dorian, Blackwall, Trevelyan—wandering dreams he won’t dare explore, not yet, perhaps not at all, always the last to retire, always the first to awaken, and they know this and he does as well and still he  _reels_ , wobbles over his resolve, and  _Maker’s breath but he needs to touch him_.

Six days. Six days without so much as a fleeting brush of hands, walking the Silent Plains in the hopes of reaching Weisshaupt within a fortnight, and they’re closer now, but  _he’s_  much farther, from him,  _Alistair_ , here with him and still so far, because they can’t be,  _together_ , not out of shame but out of discretion,  _and what would they think and what would they say_ , and he can’t afford the kind of gossip he’s imagined. He’d cope, of course—it isn’t fear that guides him, led instead by a sense of caution,  _of devotion_ , fiercely protective of him, of  _them_ , and he doesn’t need unwanted attention, only  _his_ , but it’s eluded him all week and his will is on the verge of  _snapping_.

Alistair sits dazed beside him, and they haven’t looked at each other, not yet, embers burning hot amidst ashes and scented chunks of wood, and he teeters there,  _sways_ , towards him, the side of his face lightly pressed against the broad of his shoulder. He’s been drifting off for the past few hours, long before their companions retired, and Cullen smiles, lazy, because he  _knows_ , the reason why he’s still there, with  _him_  and not with them, out of each other’s grasps but  _here_ , stalling, every night, all in order  _to be_  together, even in silent indulgence… but he wants more. He  _needs_  more, and he jumps at every rustle of leaves, every cough, every yawn spilled from the tents, as if judged, scrutinized, and he feels ridiculous.

There’s nobody here to watch. There’s nobody here to  _see_. There’s only him,  _them_ , Alistair, Cullen, and he shakes his head and he groans, at last, shifting to snake his arm around him, giving in, pulling him closer.

 _Ohhh_ ,  _Maker_. The warmth of Alistair’s body irradiates through his own, and he leans in, his nose in his hair, breathing in, eyes closed.  _He’s missed him_. He misses him still, pulse wilder as he shifts again, and he traps him there between his legs and he wraps himself around him, careful, gentle, Alistair’s back against his chest. He doesn’t wake. He  _breathes_ , slow, hazy, and Cullen breathes with him, a content sigh, his cheek pressed to his and—

 _HngggRRRrrghn_.

—and Alistair  _snores_ , loud,  _obnoxious_ , and Cullen stills against him, eyebrow quirked, suspicious.

“Alistair,” he all but whispers, head slightly tilted to catch a better glimpse of his face. “Are you…?”

“Faking it? Maaaybe. I needed a reason to…  _touch_  you.”

Something jolts in his chest at the sound of his voice, his confession, and he strives to keep his eyes void of the amusement he feels,  _the warmth_ , his arm firmer around his waist as Alistair shifts against him, a better angle.

“And you thought to achieve subtlety by alerting everyone in camp.”

“Oh, you mean the snoring? No.  _That’s_  only to fool them.”

“To fool them.”

“ _To fool them_. Into thinking that I’m actually asleep. Don’t you remember? It’s what we used to do back in the Chantry, when—”

“It’s what  _you_  used to do,” Cullen cuts in, and there it is, the curve to his lips, lopsided, and he feels the flutter of Alistair’s fingers along his jaw and he shivers, the tip of his nose tender against the side of his head. “And it rarely worked.”

“ _That’s_  because  _you_  always gave me away,” and Cullen laughs, quiet,  _because it’s true_ , and Alistair laughs with him, a chuckle in his ear, closer in his embrace. “I still resent you for that, you know.”

“Do you now,” he sighs,  _grins_ , and he leans down, lower, seeking more, and his lips hover parted in the crook of his neck and he breathes him in, Alistair’s hand warm on his cheek. “And this is how you unleash your rancor? By touching those who wronged you?”

“ _Well_. Touching, yes. If you mean the violent, gory kind that usually involves darkspawn  _or_  very, very bad men. It’s rarely…  _ever_ … as nice as…  _this_ , though.”

“Rarely ever?”

“No, not… ever. Because I’ve never…  _touched_  anyone like this, and even if I had, nothing could ever be as… nice… as tou…ching…  _you_.”

And he does,  _touch him_ , muffled notes of pleasure as he arches against him, and Cullen runs his mouth over his throat, slow, languid, Alistair’s fingers twisted sharp in his hair. He’s nearly forgotten everyone else and it’s just as well, because he feels his pulse, hard, in his temples, hammering in his chest and throbbing in his loins, and he kisses his jaw and he nuzzles his cheek, and Alistair nibbles on his ear.  _I’ve missed you_ , he thinks he hears—or perhaps it’s an echo of his own affection—and his heart quivers and he rocks him closer, a low, sweet note of desire between them.

A low, coarse note of disrupted sleep  _around_  them, burbling from the tents.

“See,” Alistair smiles, impish as Cassandra begins a litany of chanted snores, and he shifts again, on his knees now, propped on each side of Cullen’s thighs. “It  _did_  work. They’ve fully fallen asleep now and they’ll never suspect what my true intentions really were.”

“And I trust you’ll enlighten me as to what you truly had in mind?”

Alistair leans down, warm,  _fond_ , cupping his face as his lips brush over his, once, twice, and Cullen cranes his neck for him, lashes fluttering low, a languid roll of his tongue around his.

“You. Me. Ca…boo… _dles_.”

 _Caboodles_ , and Cullen snorts, loud, he can’t help it— _he’s a grown man, for Andraste’s sake_ —but it’s so ridiculously endearing it warms his face, his chest, and yes, _caboodling_  sounds rather appealing, with him, this foolish man he’s fallen for, an old friend, his partner, always, in every aspect of his life.

He doesn’t say anything, nuzzling him instead, and they breathe the same air and Cullen’s fingers spread over the small of his back, a light push, coaxing him closer, lower,  _against him_ , and he feels him there, his shaft, clothed and hard and pressed to his own, and he growls into his mouth.

“O-Ohhh,” Alistair nods, sluggish, a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and he catches Cullen’s bottom lip between his teeth and he  _thrusts_ , undulates until his cock twitches eager against his and  _Cullen needs him closer._

“ _Alright_ ,” he croaks, and he nods as well,  _fast_ , arms secured around him to lift him up, and he does,  _lift him_ , unsteady until he stands staggering, lips locked, parted, _urgent_ , and he can’t stop touching him. “Caboodles.  _Now_.”

And  _now_  turns into nearly half a mile away, an impromptu escapade into the woods, sand and leaves and stars, bodies intertwined, and he loves him until he can’t breathe, fingers laced, heartbeats in unison, his head on his chest.  _Caboodles_ , he said, and he smiles to himself as sleep overtakes him, Alistair’s fingers idle across his back, tender caresses, and he thinks, hazily, that he, too, could never find anything as nice as touching him.

 


	4. SHOCK BOMB

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "If you're really doing the Ridiculous Sentence Prompts, could you write “I’m like 75% sure this won’t explode on us.”? Cullistair if possible :)"

If only Varric had accompanied them. Zevran even, or... no, _definitely not Zevran_ , still out there attached to Cousland's hip, probably doing what he does best... and _that_ thought isn't as reassuring as it should be. Maker knows it's what he needs right now— _reassurance_ —stranded in the middle of nowhere with a small horde of Darkspawn nearby, and still it's not what truly concerns him, bombarded instead with impatient sighs and dubious looks and _oh, for Andraste's sake_! Will none of them trust him?

"I know what I'm doing," Alistair repeats for the hundredth time, and truth be told, _he really doesn't_ , crouched and hunched behind a rock as he carefully crushes a frozen shard of lightning, an empty flask on the ground.

"They're approaching," Blackwall says, and Alistair groans, a roll of amber eyes as he focuses, the tip of his tongue squished between his teeth. "I sense—"

"Hey," his head snaps up, silent warnings in the shake of his head, because _really_ , after everything they've learned, he chooses to pull _that_ one? " _No_. Don't even."

"He might be right," Cullen crouches beside him, ready to unsheathe his weapon, and Alistair sighs, because he _knows_ and _ugh_ , why can't they just let him work _in peace_. "Can you sense them? Perhaps we should—"

" _Cullen_ ," he growls, yet his glare subsides to a mild frown the moment he catches his gaze, worried, _for him_ , and he sighs through his nose and he smiles a feeble smile, giving the flask a little shake. " _Of course_ I sense them. It's a small horde, but there's still too many of them for us three to take on. We need a distraction. We need this _bomb_."

"Will it work?"

" _Weeell_ ," and he coughs, _chuckles_ , clearing his throat before nodding, _barely_ convincing himself, and smoke snakes out of the flask, a spark here and a spark there and it burns in his palm and he hisses and he curses, causing his companions to jerk backwards.

"Throw it away!" Blackwall panics, shield and sword in hands, but he doesn't, _throw it_ , because he needs the horde closer and _what does Blackwall know of anything_.

"Don't worry," he stands back on his feet, cautiously manipulating the flask, and it burns still but it looks stable, _relatively so_ , and he's so proud of himself he beams, the quiet sweep of his lips growing large and satisfied. " **I'm like 75% sure this won't explode on us**."

"Alistair," Cullen warns, but he's not looking at _him_ , eyes fixed on the woods in front of them, and he takes a step ahead and he reaches for his weapons, fierce, ready for battle, tactfully positioned to shield and protect him, _Alistair_ , and Alistair's chest rises and his heart flutters and he wishes they were alone.

And away. _Especially_ away, from here, somewhere safe instead, and he thinks of home and he walks up to him, his hand on his arm.

"Together," he smiles, and Cullen's gaze softens, warmth in his eyes before he redirects his attention askance, and Alistair draws his sword, charging as he throws the bomb, the first wave of Darkspawn frozen and disoriented.

 It'll be long hours before they reach safety, bruises and new scars, dry blood on their skin, and it doesn't matter how weary he feels, because he feels good _here_ , body warm in Cullen's embrace, a litany of aggravated groans outside their tent.

Blackwall, as it appears, is certainly able to sense _certain_ things, after all.


	5. TOGETHER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an answer in the form of a very short drabble, after someone asked me who i'd choose to leave behind if both cullen and alistair were stuck in the fade, and the simple truth of the matter is... _they wouldn't leave each other._

_Together_. 

They’d fight. 

Side by side, fingers intertwined when the pain is too much, crushed when they know,  _it’s too late_ ,  _there’s no turning back now_ , and knees waver and swords clatter and the ground shakes beneath them, crimson,  _darkness comes_.

Cullen smiles one last time, a sound on his lips, a name,  _his_ , echoed in Alistair’s breath. They’re the last things they see, <i>each other</i>, gold and amber.

They’re the last things they see before they see no longer.


	6. THE NEXT BEST THING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this [piece of art](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/post/126865272379/i-see-you-still-do-the-kiss-art-challenge-so), by froschkuss @ tumblr.

Disheveled. Hirsute. His hair  _and_  his stubble, a drowsy sight in front of the mirror, and Cullen avoids his reflection like his shield’s deflected blows the night before, a muffled groan rising in his throat.  _He’s so tired_. Two hours of sleep, three at most, and he still he must leave again, nobles on their way,  _Orlesians_ , soon to grace the gates of Skyhold with the sort of extravagance he already feels in his temples,  _pounding_ , and he growls and he frowns and he clicks his tongue, head falling low between the broad of his shoulders. Droplets of water still dot his skin from the quick cleaning of his face, rivulets running down his chin, his neck, clinging to the fine lines of his collarbones, and he sighs,  _heavy_ , heavier than the dreams still puffing his eyes—he doesn’t know how he’ll bring himself back to full awareness if even  _cold water_  has done little to stir his senses… but someone else  _does_.

He doesn’t hear him walking in, focused on splashing yet more water upon his cheeks. He doesn’t feel him, either, not right away, a feather-like touch along the small of his back, familiar and foreign, thoughts still fogged, and he  _hums_ , instinctively, because he knows,  _who_ , and he hums again and he  _breathes_ , limper, absentmindedly responsive as he arches his back, and there’s something rough on his bottom, soft and  _wet_ , and his head snaps right back up.

“A-Alistair,” he all but croaks, grip tighter around the edges of the washstand, and he feels him, his nose, his hand, his cheek, jaw gruff from unshaven stubble, and he feels his lips, languorous across his skin, curled into a smile he can only imagine as  _wicked_.

“Were you expecting someone else?” and he laughs,  _chuckles_ , warm and gentle against his skin, and Cullen flushes, swallows as Alistair trails his fingers along the curve of his arse, and his mouth grows dry.

“No, of course  _not_ , I… What are you doing?”

“ _Weeeell_ ,” he nuzzles him— _he nuzzles him_ —and Cullen squirms, the corner of his bottom lip trapped between shaky teeth. “I was asleep when you came to bed. Let’s just say I woke up with a mighty need to… make up for lost time.”

“By fondling my…  _my_ —”

“Arse? Your face was out of reach,  _sooo_ … I went for the next… best…  _thing_.”

He can’t help it—he snorts, mirth in his eyes as he shakes his head, and he feels the fabric of his breeches around him,  _tighter_ , Alistair’s knuckles sliding up the side of his torso.  _He’s definitely_   _awake_.

“I’m running late,” he sighs, his voice laced with disappointment, and Alistair runs his lips across his skin, higher, palms flushed against the planes of his stomach as he stands and holds him, and Cullen trembles in his arms. “I should…”

“You’ve barely slept, Cullen.”

“Well, I certainly don’t feel like…  _sleeping_  now.”

He catches Alistair’s smile in the mirror, chin nestled in the crook of his shoulder as he hugs him closer,  _tighter_ , and gold melts into amber and Cullen smiles as well, warm and impish, his hand seeking his.

“Just how  _late_ are you, exactly? Or do you think you could spare a few…  _moments_. Ten minutes, maybe? Or fifty? I like fifty.”

_He shouldn’t_ , and still he finds himself chuckling again, a roll of golden eyes as he turns and wraps his arms around him, his nose against his, slow, tender, faces flushed with the same measure of warmth.

“For you?” he says, a soft whisper as lips hover over lips, and Alistair’s smile brushes against his own. “Always.”

_Orlesians be damned._


	7. BEAUTY SLEEP ★

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> piece of art made by froschkuss @ tumblr ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

The half-moon wanes, dwindles through pulled curtains—a shallow gleam cast upon supple skin—and Cullen stirs in its ghastly glow, rivulets of water still running down his face, his neck, his _chest_ , poised in the warmth of Alistair's embrace. _He needs him_. Beyond physical intimacy, shiver after shiver shaking them both as Alistair's hold tightens, and Cullen breathes in the crook of his shoulder, molded against his bare body, an onslaught of hushed whispers in his ears. Comfort. _Peace_. It's what Alistair feels like, solid, a pillar when he falters, and he did, _falter_ , another nightmare and another cry, soothed in the steam of a bath, and still nothing could ever measure up to _this_ , Alistair's arms around him and his cheek against his, gruff with dreams lingering in his eyes.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Cullen apologizes, his voice still raw as gentle fingers trace the curve of his back, and he feels his smile and he lifts his head, _up_ , a brush of his nose against  his.

"I'd rather be awake _and_ with you," Alistair's mouth flutters around his, and Cullen finds a smile of his own, remembering just how _fast_ Alistair barged into the washroom, bare, _concerned_ , bed empty, and his chest tightens.

"What of your beauty sleep?" he teases softly, and Alistair snorts, a chuckle Cullen feels on his lips.

"Well, I could be mistaken, _but_. Let's be honest. I'm a sight for sore eyes, and I'm fairly _suuuure_ that at least one part of you... _agrees_."

Guilty as charged, and Cullen muffles a groan, a groggy grin as Alistair's hand curls around him, his shaft heavy in the warmth of his palm. _Maker's breath_. He shouldn't be aroused _now_ , and still it's more than that, _deeper_ , a longing for him, wild in the beat of his heart, and he finds his lips and he moans around his tongue, a shallow thrust of his hips into the comfort of his grip.

"Bed?" Alistair murmurs, his mouth slow and languid over his, and Cullen nods, lazy, crushing his body against his and never letting go of him, limbs intertwined as they fumble back to his room.

There's laughter in his throat as he looms over him, echoed in Alistair's smile, a gasp in his curls, and he holds him there in the warmth of his bed, the same heat in their eyes, _tender_ , and they love each other until the sun rises again.


	8. SNEAKY WITCH-THIEF ★

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the Chantry lives of younger!Alistair and younger!Cullen, in which Alistair realizes why he does what he does after Cullen wrestles him down for stealing something of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  doodle and prompt by the ever stellar froschkuss @ tumblr ♥

" _ALISTAIR_!"

His name flares, _thunders_ through the corridors of the Chantry, feral, _loud_ , a growl laced with just enough vehemence for him to know that he's in trouble. _Andraste preserve him_. He shouldn't have, _he knows_ , and still he did anyway, a piece of cake, _cheese cake_ , half of it shoved into his mouth now, and he hurries back to his room, bumping into walls as he glances frantic over his shoulder. _Cullen_. He catches a glimpse of him, fierce as he rounds the hallway's corner and _running_ , savage, furious, _after him_ , and Alistair nearly chokes on his bite, swallowing hard with a sharp smack of his fist against his sternum. _It wasn't his to eat_. Just like a certain sword wasn't his to swing, or like a certain letter wasn't his to read.

_And yet he always does this_.

Why? It's a question he's asked himself many times. Getting a rise out of Cullen... _well_. He doesn't particularly enjoy upsetting him, and he never means to disrespect him, but there's something... warm, _in his chest_ , whenever his attention is riveted on him, and he knows how badly he tries his patience, dangerously running thin now, _and he can't help himself_. Between cracking questionable jokes in order to make him laugh and infuriating the _living fade_ out of him, he can't seem to find the right balance, often messing up, always uneasy, and he struggles to gain his approval, his closest friend here, reeling with a burning need to just _tell him_ , how _and_ what he feels, but how is he supposed to achieve that when words escape him, when confusion fogs his mind, emotions he can scarcely understand?

He doesn't know, awkward in his desire to please, and _this_ happens, _Cullen_ , ominous in the doorframe of their shared bedroom, imposing and commanding attention even when he doesn't wish to, and Alistair recoils, _backwards_ , a nervous and cocky grin slanting his lips as he shoves the rest of the cake into his mouth.

"You bloody—"

"Bashtard?" Alistair suggests, mouth full and seemingly innocent as his smirk grows wider, but his pulse pounds in every inch of him and Cullen growls again, lurching forward.

_Oh, shit_.

He moves swift and agile despite the broad of his body, all hard ridges and solid slabs of muscles, and _oh_ , Alistair's noticed _that_ too, many times during spars, a delight to watch, and he doesn't dare to question why he is so ridiculously pleasing to the eye. He doesn't dare and he doesn't try, not here, not _now_ , unable to even think as Cullen slams into him, and he tumbles back and he hits the floor, a massive jumble of infuriated potency above him.

_He's so strong_. Stronger than he, perhaps, a year younger and still so capable, and he's aware of his strength, rough as they wrestle yet careful enough to never actually _hurt_ him, and it's one of the things Alistair likes about him, the depth of his gentle nature, transpiring even through his jagged edges. It's distracting. It's what Alistair likes to tell himself as Cullen quickly gains the upper hand, pinned underneath him and wriggling like that nug he once saw, trapped in the unwanted embrace of their Knight-Commander, but this, here, isn't _exactly_ unwanted, and he begs for mercy as laughter erupts from his lips, Cullen's gaze softer upon his face.

_Those eyes_. Flecks of gold and copper, a halo of hazel warmth set beneath thick lashes, and he catches his stare and he notes the half-smile trembling there at the corner of his mouth, and his own stills on a shaky breath.

It's happened before, more often in the past few months, since the announcement of the ceremony that'll force them apart. It's happened before and it happens now, _again_ , gazes locked as Cullen's fingers twitch around his, and his grip loosens and his smile wavers, a gentle sigh on his lips and a faint question in his eyes, and they stare at each other and they _breathe_ , Alistair's throat tighter as he feels Cullen's touch upon his cheek, a tentative brush of his fingertips.

"Cullen," he whispers, _croaks_ , his heart heavy against his ribcage, and the spell is broken and Cullen blinks, shakes his head, promptly rolling over and hurrying back on his feet, his palm tense around his nape.

"Don't..." he huffs, a brief glance towards him, and he looks away and he clenches his jaw, a splash of crimson splayed across his nose. "D-Don't steal my stuff again, Alistair."

It's an order, a warning that Cullen's tone fails to convey, too gentle, the same fluster in his voice that burns on Alistair's face, and he watches him leave, eyebrows quirked, flushed, aghast.

_Don't steal my stuff again_ , he said, _and it isn't fair at all_ , because he knows now, _Cullen_ , walking away with a piece of him, and he feels its pulse against his open palm and he feels its strain in the back of his throat...

...and he understands.


	9. I AM HOME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a quick, angsty drabble, because i'm in a crabby mood. it's deep roads time for alistair. cullen won't let him die alone.

His sword's never felt so heavy. Even without the burden of his full armor, Cullen carries himself with half the strength he's always possessed, a broken shield on his arm and splintered wood stuck in his skin. He's bleeding. Crimson rivulets run down his face, and he blinks, constantly, to keep his sight as clear as he can. He doesn't know how long he'll last, surrounded by darkness, by _decay_ , deep amidst rock and death, a road he's never imagined walking. He shouldn't have had to, _they_ shouldn't have had to, but the world has never been as it seems and he pays now, they all do, for mistakes that couldn't be avoided. There should have been a cure...

...but Cullen's stopped believing in " _what ifs_ " a long time ago, when he realized that nothing would ever save the man he loves.

It's after him he chases now, _Alistair_ , gone without a word, only a rose on his night table, the last one he'll ever leave there. _Stubborn fool_. Even with the incessant cries in his head, the voices, tormenting, _calling_ , Alistair thinks of sparing _him_ rather than himself, running to an end he's seen coming for two decades. He's always been ready, however scared, however anxious. He's always been ready to _die_ , as all Wardens are, he suspects, and Cullen has known such bereft years in his life he doesn't fear death any longer, nor does he fear pain. It's everywhere in his muscles now as he staggers in the dark, but this, losing Alistair, _it frightens him_ , more than anything else ever has, and he needs to see him before he breathes his last, he needs to _touch_ him, because he can't bear the thought of him fighting alone _, like he thinks he should_ , and it's been clear in his mind _, in his heart_ , ever since they met again back when he commanded the forces of the Inquisition, that there would never be a _together_ without a _forever_.

He grew up with him. He will die the same.

He thinks of him as he cuts a path through another horde, of his scent still lingering on his skin and in his hair, faint from the embrace they shared in the morning, longer, _harder_ , a trifle desperate. He knows why now as he hears Alistair, not too far, swords clashing and groans echoing, and Cullen runs faster, blood spilling as he sways and charges, and he realizes from the sharp pain in his abdomen that most of it is his own. It doesn't slow him down, high on adrenaline, and he finds him, _Alistair_ , badly wounded, cuts and bruises on his face and weakened on one knee, piles of dead bodies around him.

Their gazes cross, and Alistair's eyes widen.

"No!"

 _Yes_ , and the last darkspawn falls as Cullen leaps forward, rushing to him, his pulse wild in places it shouldn't beat. Alistair shakes his head as Cullen kneels, swords and broken shields on the ground, and he cups his face, blood and tears and mud on his fingers as he presses their foreheads together, and there's a sound in Alistair's throat, ragged, _raw_ , the same Cullen tries to muffle.

"Cullen," he heaves, eyebrows pinched in pain, and he grips his shoulders and they shake together, harder than the ground under their knees, stronger. "You should have stayed home—"

"I _am_ home."

It's something they've often told each other, insistent in the past week, Alistair's attentions more frequent, his kisses longer, his hugs warmer, and Cullen tells him now, because _home_ is so much more than the life they've rebuilt. It's the friendship they've cherished and the love they've nurtured, and it's this, _now_ , trembling in each other's arms and frightened, but not lost. Never lost, not here, _together_ , and Alistair smiles and Cullen shifts, _closer_ , snarls and screams louder in his ears as their lips touch, the same tender urgency in his arms. He doesn't close his eyes as they hold each other, gold and amber, and they gaze and they kiss, brushes of fingertips on bruised skin as his vision blurs, and he tastes and he touches and he sighs, his name on his tongue, one last time.

Until he sees no longer.


	10. SNEAKY WITCH-THIEF; THE SEQUEL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find the prequel [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4217217/chapters/11459995)
> 
>   
>   
> art by froschkuss @ tumblr

**Alistair** : Just one more.  
**Cullen** : No.  
**Alistair** :  _Please_. Just one tiny,  _meager_ bite, so small you won’t even notice it’s  _gone._  
**Cullen** :  _No_.  
**Alistair** : You’re still mad, aren’t you. Because of that last piece of cake I…  _borrowed_.  
**Cullen** : You  _ate_ it, Alistair.  
**Alistair** : I’m a growing man! I was hungry. It doesn’t even really count as stealing, you know. I  _choked_ on it. I don’t even remember what it tasted like now.  
**Cullen** : That’s unfortunate, because you certainly won’t  _borrow_ this one. If you wish to remember, use your imagination.  
**Alistair** : Oh, I can do that. I can smell the cheese from here, actually. It would really help if you were closer though. With your plate.  _Just under my nose_. Can I  _look_ at _—_  
**Cullen** :  _Alistair_.  
**Alistair** : Just a litt _fmmphfmphrr—_  


	11. GOOD MORNING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  gif by the fantastic froschkuss @ tumblr ♥

cullen’s arm, limp from the quietude of dreams undisturbed, tightens around him before either of them dare to crack their eyes open. alistair’s hand feels warm over his, fingers laced loose against his stomach, and he leans back, secured in his embrace, legs intertwined as thumbs and knuckles flutter in caresses unhurried. there’s a sound between them, a note of longing,  _i’ve missed you_ , and alistair smiles and cullen’s lips touch his cheek and he  _sighs_ , a chuckle that swells with the rise of his chest. it’s crowded,  _full_ , hearts pounding in gentle devotion, and alistair cranes his neck for him, the tender stretch of his mouth brushing against his own.  _good morning_ , and cullen hums and alistair beams, noses nuzzling,  _seeking_ , bodies molded and wrapped in languid urgency, lazy, senses stirred awake.

_good morning_.

and with him by his side, the same tremor in his breath, the same ease in his arms, open for  _him_ , willing, welcoming… he could never imagine a better way to start his day.


	12. ONE LAST TIME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  stellar art by the ever stellar froschkuss @ tumblr

Tents have been rolled up, bedrolls and food packed away, and in the midst of contained agitation, Cullen gives the last of his orders, morale bolstered by the sharp yet sincere tone of his encouragements. They’ll need them, rallied as one when everything seems against them—even the weather. He can’t feel most of his face, and what little he  _can_ , he wishes he didn’t. It doesn’t matter. Alistair stands nearby as soldiers march forward, and he stalls, for him, for a future they dream of together, never to be shared should they lose the next battle.

His breath catches in the back of his throat when he turns to face him. His nose is just as red as his own, and it’s what causes him to relent, a subtle change in his stance, only a man now, a Commander without a command. Alistair easily recognizes the shift in his posture for having been welcome into his arms so often, and it’s why he goes to him without hesitation, slightly detached from the rest of the group. Neither of them know when  _or_  if they’ll ever be given such a chance again, a brief moment of peace before chaos, and as the wind blows brisk and as the snow falls crisp, Cullen pulls him close, shared warmth as the fur of his coat shelters them both.  _Alistair_. He feels his lips, a flutter of tender whispers in his neck, and he closes his eyes, his cheek against his as he nuzzles him and carves the shape of their bodies into his mind, molded and pressed and nestled, a haven they’ve found together.

A home they’ve built together.

When he looks up again, eyes fixed on the horizon, Alistair’s arms sneak tighter around him,  _one last time_ , and Cullen vows to make it back alive, for everything he’s been fighting for and for  _him_ , his childhood friend, his better half, and he knows, even as the Fereldan breeze blows harsher, that the shivers running down his spine, shaking them both, aren’t caused by the cold.

He knows, and he smiles, a subtle twitch of his mouth as Alistair’s lips brush against his throat, because despite the many dangers they’re about to face, despite the _uncertainty_ … there isn’t, nor will there ever be, any place like home.


	13. MISTLETOE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which cullen and alistair stumble upon mistletoe, a moment captured by the hero of ferelden as well as the inquisition squad ~~and also jim~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  art by wonderful cheesewheel starshipsorceress @ tumblr. two more pieces [over here](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/post/135484643819/pairing-cullen-x-alistair-summary-in-which).

It doesn't smell like a tavern should. It doesn't _feel_ like a tavern should, either, spices and colors and revelry, and the Chargers have broken out into another song—the twentieth, at least. The ambience is light-hearted, more cheerful than any pub she's ever seen, and she's seen _a lot_ , during her travels, none of them as well-kept as this one, none of them as pleasantly occupied. It's almost like its own universe, a microcosm untouched by the chaos spreading outside, and Solona drinks to her heart's content amidst laughter and melodies, her belly full with the kind of warmth that will inevitably wane come morning.

Reality can only be deflected for so long, and she's learned a long time ago that the world doesn't wait for anyone.

For now, however, she allows herself to breathe, her attention drifting to new and familiar faces. The Iron Bull reminds her of Sten, but only in stature—he laughs easy and loudly, _from his guts_ , and Cassandra rolls her eyes every time a lewd remark crosses his lips. She scoffs often, that one, especially when Varric's involved, but when she smiles, _she smiles_ , her sharpened edges kinder than they appear. Her rougher façade isn't unlike Morrigan's, and _she_ has changed, softened where Leliana's hardened, and Solona can't help but wonder what it would feel like, if Zevran were with them. Surely he'd get along with Dorian, and perhaps Sera as well, both grinning now, a prank unleashed on the unsuspecting and stunning Vivienne. Krem leans against the bar as Sera's cackle echoes around them, his seduction game interrupted, and just up the stairs, Solas seems to be talking to himself. He isn't. There's a ghost there, _Cole_ , they call him, but Solona's yet to see him. Her attention is otherwise taken, cheers from both Blackwall and Josephine as familiar figures stand caught under a suspended plant, one smiling coy and the other glaring fierce.

Alistair. Cullen. And mistletoe _._

"No, this is _ridiculous_."

"I believe _this_ is a Fereldan tradition, Commander," Josephine teases from her seat, encouraged by the Chargers who have now stopped singing, cheering instead, and even Cassandra's smiling.

"And here I thought the south lacked in frivolity," Dorian chimes in, one smooth finger along the wicked curve of his mustache. " _Fascinating_. I didn't think you southern Chantry types had it in you."

"Oh, you'd be surprised what _us_ Chantry types are capable of, _trust_ me..." Alistair smiles cheeky, not without a splash of heat covering his face, and Cullen glowers.

_She_ catches the double-entendre, and it's odd, seeing the both of them after so many years, remnants of the boys she once knew. They aren't so different now, broken in places she wishes they weren't, but when they look at each other, when they talk or simply stand together, where they think no one can see them, _she_ does, and her guts churn with the memories of a time long gone. She remembers Cullen, a young templar  who shyly spoke of his friend, the same warmth in his eyes that she noted months later in Alistair's gaze. She had no idea, then. She'd sensed the fondness, of course, but it wasn't until Kinloch Hold fell that she understood. The news she brought back to camp left Alistair in shattered pieces, and she remembers the despair in his voice, the vehemence of his tone, when he pled to go _back_ , and she wondered for a long time if he'd ever forgive her for not bringing him along with her.

He did. _Of course_ he did, silencing his own torments for her sake, for all of theirs, and he found his smile again, but it was never really the same after that. He _hurt_ , old wounds and new ones as well, and he missed _him_ , but it rarely ever transpired out in the open—he always waited until he thought he was alone, but she'd come to know him so well, he could hardly hide anything from her.

It's the same devotion she sees in his eyes now, as they face each other, and despite Cullen's frown, it's difficult to miss the gentle glint in his gaze, his posture much more loose in Alistair's presence and his guard lowered. They've kissed before. She never _caught_ them, and she never had to—the sense of comfort they exude when they stand together is unmistakable, and however subtle they may be, the affection they hold for each other is plain to see.

It's why everyone teases them now, _because they all know_ , and she suspects that Cullen knows that they know, flustered and uncertain, perhaps even a trifle aggravated, but never ashamed.

"Oh, come on, Boss," Bull gestures towards Trevelyan, his pint high and full of that potent liquor she promises herself she'll never drink again. "You're the Inquisitor, aren't you? Make them do it."

"May I suggest an alternative?" Dorian leans back into his chair, leg crossed over his knee. "I'll gladly take either place, if neither of you Chantry boys are willing to indulge."

"Perhaps the King should sweep the Commander off his feet?"

" _Josephine_."

"Well, in Antiva, we—"

"Swooping," Solona finally decides to break her silence, not without catching Leliana's covert grin. "It's swooping. And it's _bad_. But is it better than sweeping?"

Alistair's chuckle instantly fills the air, and she can feel the room brighten, not in terms of color but _there_ , hearts lighter, and the smirk he smirks causes Cullen's mouth to twitch—in spite of himself, she assumes.

"Well," Alistair clears his throat, leaning in, and Cullen's chest stops rising. "I guess there's only one way to find out..."

There's no denying it—they _have_ kissed before, Cullen's lashes fluttering low the moment Alistair's lips brush against his, as if reacquainting himself with a touch he never ceases to yearn for. His nostrils flare, a long sigh as his fingers twist in Alistair's shirt, just around his bicep—to ward him off or to pull him closer, she isn't sure, but the air grows so thick once they part, a simple peck, everyone stills with them and she knows he fights against the latter.

He loses. She watches him surrender as their gazes remain hooded, his hand twitchy around the fabric. They're no farther than an inch apart, and when the tips of their noses touch, a subtle caress, Alistair's smile reaches Cullen's eyes, his palm curling tender around the back of his neck. He loses with him—or perhaps they both _win_ , and they _kiss_ , slow and full and free, Alistair cupping his face as Cullen's hands settle over the small of his back. Everyone _cheers_ , of course, an unexpected spectacle, but she doubts they notice anything, too far past caring now. They cling to each other without _clinging_ , an embrace made for them, _together_ , and she notices the same sort of intimacy moments later, when they've regained their senses and lost their composures, farther away from the rest of them and sitting close by the fire.

Cullen's cheeks are still red from mild distress, darker now because of the alcohol, and Alistair _beams_ , soft whispers and lingering smiles, knowing glances and idle touches, and it's one of the rare occasions where no wall surrounds them. They simply _are_ , in the privacy of the home they've built together, _unbreachable_ ,  and Solona sighs happy, turning away and thinking that, perhaps, the world _has_ waited for them.

It's what it needs, more than ever. What they feel, what they _share_ , and she doesn't regret leaving everything behind now, if only for the sight they offer. She doesn't regret anything, if only for a chance to preserve who and what they are, the kind of hope they all need for a better world.

~~In the distance, Jim cries.~~ ~~~~


End file.
